Bailing Wire and Beaver Ponds

June was weird. Lots of rain and cool temps threw off the river. Flows were still very high, and from experience I knew it would be a pain in the ass to navigate my favorite spots, even a little dangerous. After talking with a friend who would be with me, we agreed to postpone and keep an eye on the flow. If we could get above all the tributaries, we’d be better off—but that was a big if.

I arrived at the shitty little A-frame we stay at every year a day early. Flexibility on my side meant a half-day solo fish before he showed up—that was the plan. Until I hit the dirt road that stretches 20 miles to camp. Usually, the state grades it every June, but there’s been talk of privatizing it to the county. “CR” stands for county road—so why is the state backing out? Anyway, the road was rougher than usual, and all the rain didn’t help.

I crept along at 15 mph, dodging potholes and washboard, the landscape spectacular. I began to unwind as I hit the backcountry. Cool for the time of year, I cranked the windows down and enjoyed the air. Then a loud clanking sound—every time I went over something rough. WTF?

Pulled over in an open meadow. Surprise: I’d blown out a ball joint from my steering rod linkage. Crushed joint, nut hanging on by a few threads. Other side missing the cotter pin. Last shop visit—they forgot both sides. Lotta good that does me now.

I grew up on an old dairy ranch. Bailing wire—something you just have or know where to find. Funny, I usually carry a spool with tools. Not this time. Time to get real crafty. Daylight on my side, noon, if total failure happened, maybe someone would come by.

No channel locks, but leather-man in hand. Cranked down the nut past the now-compromised grease boot. Task one complete. Next: replace cotter pins. Old fence along the road—surely some bailing wire lying around. Found a rusty, brittle section. Plan B: cut and unweave strands. Plan C: nail for cotter pin if diameter worked. Finally found a decent barb-wire section, gnawed through with the leather-man—about a foot per strand, three strands per weave.

Chipmunks took interest under the truck. Nothing to pay them—no guilt.

Wire fit perfectly. Out of satisfaction, I grinned, moved to the other side, repeated. Extra wire stored for “just in case.” Back in the truck, about a half-hour left on the road. Sinking feeling in the gut, who doesn’t get it? 5 mph, no clanking—crept to camp. Even the chippies didn’t scurry. Made it.

Sigh of relief rolling up to the shitty little A-frame. Unloading food and gear at 9,200 ft left me lightheaded. Cracked a cold beer, sat on the porch to “spell awhile.” Beavers busy this year—created a pond near the creek. Afternoon risers in the still water. Hatch coming off, cutthroats and browns taking advantage.

Altitude and beer buzz—I rigged the 3wt, grabbed a box of dries, headed to the pond. Thunderstorm building in the north, heading my way. About two hours if lucky.

Storm held long enough to catch a few little guys—all browns today. Nice way to come down from the day’s events and get my fish brain on.

Walk home: steak on the grill, a few more beers. Tiny couch dragged onto the covered deck. Sipping beer, eating steak, watching lightning illuminate the beaver pond. Today did not suck… though the 4-hour drive home at the end of the week loomed.

Fish on.